


A temporary job, a permanent impression

by notepad_hoarder



Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Rape, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-24 00:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2560598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notepad_hoarder/pseuds/notepad_hoarder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere in England, some time in the 70s, there was an office. Somewhere in this office was something he wanted, and some sheep good for slaughter. And a girl who didn't belong there.</p><p>PWP, slice-of-life, oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A temporary job, a permanent impression

**Author's Note:**

> This is only loosely based on the Highlander world.

She stood, because there was no sense in cowering. It hadn't done any of the others any good. He had torn through the place like a malevolent combine harvester, and what had been blandness and order was now exactly the wrong kind of excitement and chaos. And blood. So much blood. The men – driven by instinct to protect what was theirs, or by self preservation to run – had been cut down first, then the women, who had flapped like a flock of seagulls and made about the same amount of noise. The marauder had had more respect for the men who fought than those who ran, but the result was the same. He played with the women, who panicked. He chased them down and slit their throats, which was at least quicker than what he did to the men who begged for mercy, but had the same ultimate result. That that much carnage could be wrought by one man-shaped storm beggared belief, but he had managed it.  
  
She had missed the beginning of the attack by being sent to the stationary cupboard for more photocopier toner. She didn't even work there. The agency had sent her less than a week ago and she hadn't even established whether the milk in the fridge was communal or owned by one person, and had spent three days drinking her tea black because of it. She hadn't been able to approach anyone who might know, and no-one volunteered any information to her here.  
  
She had watched through the keyhole in the door as the beige and grey of the office had turned to red, at the hands of an anachronistic barbarian in leather and fur, unstoppably wielding a longsword. Out of place, certainly. Unreal, certainly not. She had considered hiding and hoping for him to leave, maybe hoping that there was a list of employees that he inexplicably wanted dead and that a temp wouldn't be on it, but she had watched as he he hauled people out of hiding places that should have worked and had made short work of them, silencing pleas and gabbled bargains. It was almost quiet now, no-one was moving. Only the warrior remained, and he was searching. What he was searching for, she had no clue and anyway, it didn't matter – she could not stake her life on the hope that he would pass over a cupboard the size of a small room in his attempt to find it. So she stood.  
  
The thing that had taken the most courage to do was opening the door, and for a long few seconds she had doubted her ability to make her muscles obey her and do it. Just getting her hand onto the doorknob had been a triumph of will. Slowly at first, then with a touch of recklessness, faster, she turned it. Before she could second guess herself, she pushed the door open and stepped through. The floor here was clear. If she only looked down, and ignored her peripheral vision, it was perfectly normal. She did not look down. She looked at the man, turning over bodies and searching pockets, leaning on the pommel of his sword to open desk drawers and rifle through the contents. The blade did not bend. He had heard her, no doubt about that. She'd seen him using that blade, he had the reflexes of a cheetah and the same thrill of the slaughter. A ninja probably wouldn't be able to sneak past him. Still, he took his time, finishing what he was doing before dropping the body back down onto its desk and looking at her.  
  
He smiled.  
  
“Hello, pretty.” he husked with a voice like a blender full of gravel. He stalked towards her unhurriedly, sword tip trailing on the miserable carpet. She trembled, but did not move. His was not a reassuring smile.  
  
“I didn't see you there.” he said lightly. Or at least, what lightly turned into when it went through his throat and came out of his mouth.  
  
Behind him – previously between her and him, now between him and the door – a large potted fern exploded in a desperate scrabble of shrieking secretary making a desperate bid for escape. Before she could change the angle of her trajectory to get around the filing cabinet and to some semblance of safety, the man had whirled around, lunged, and decapitated her.  
  
“Well, that was stupid.” she heard the whispered words, and a moment later, realised that she had whispered them. If her throat hadn't been so dry she probably would have said them aloud. The barbarian turned sharply back towards her, then slowly smiled again. She was very much aware that she was most likely about to die. This awareness took on an oddly academic air, as she felt the same air currents that had frozen one side of her body as she had sat at the least desirable desk in the most uncomfortable chair, felt the unforgiving, hard excuse for carpet under the balls of her feet in shoes too smart to be comfortable, breathed in the air that smelt more organic and metallic than any other air she had ever breathed. The light glistening off the internal organs of a man who had “accidentally” brushed past her buttocks in the kitchenette took on the sparkle of diamonds, an overthrown mug of tea disgorged a contents that moved as slowly as caramel as it dripped from the edge of a desk onto the floor. Red tendrils swirled leisurely into the light brown liquid as the puddle expanded across the desk and met a pool of blood. She saw everything in exquisite close detail.  
  
He advanced upon her again, taking up where he had been interrupted. He clanked as he moved. There was a lot of metal on him – he was dressed for a battle, not a civilian slaughter. He looked ready to fight equals, and revel in it. She got the distinct impression that he had been disappointed – and annoyed – not to find any equal warriors to challenge him here. He towered, even from the far end of the room, and moreso now he was close. He stopped and stood six feet away from her, his feet where the grey carpet became reddish black. And he grinned. It was a terrifying grin, a grin that said that she might think she was walking a tightrope but actually it was made of razor wire, and even if she got across to the other platform, he might push her down into the pool of sharks waiting below, just for the hell of it.  
  
“ _Why_ didn't I see you?” he asked with a thin veneer of casualness straining to cover the threat. Wordlessly she held up the toner cartridge that was still in her left hand, in fingers that had locked around it when the first clash of steel started. He cocked his head, apparently not recognising the object, but recognising that it was something a minion would be sent on an errand to fetch. With a blur, the tip of his sword was against her throat and he was grinning again.  
  
“Are you afraid to die?” he growled. She was breathing faster and deeper than she was telling her respiratory system to, and shaking. Her knees were holding up by sheer force of will. But she would not run like the others and have death take her from behind.  
  
“Yes.” she swallowed, and the sword point pressed minutely closer into her larynx. She could see herself, in her mind's eye, retreating from that point until he had her backed up all the way to the cupboard door, then slowly skewered through the throat and pinned to the flimsy door that way as he pursued her with the same steady, slow, inexorable thrust of his sword. So she let the tip of the blade dent the flesh where her clavicles didn't quite meet, let it push her back on her heels until she nearly fell over, but she didn't retreat.  
  
“Good.” he lowered the blade, and stalked up close to her, so she had to tip her head back and expose her throat to look him in the eye. Her eyes shone wetly as she didn't dare to blink tears away. He was huge. Approaching, if not over, seven foot. But not lanky. The athleticism of someone who trains daily and fights almost as often. Muscles that worked, rather than sitting on limbs like grapefruit waiting to be awarded prizes for best grown. He smelled real, too, a funk of sweat and blood that her civilised self recoiled from but the deeper savage drank in. With a sudden move he had fingers twisted through her hair, holding her head back where she herself had put it. She heard his sword clatter against a desk, rebound against a chair, thump to the floor. His other arm cradled her, tight, against his solid torso.  
  
“Do you want me to fuck you?” That grin. That terrifying, insane, brutally arousing grin that dared her to gamble by speaking. But it was far too late to try to back out of the game now, to crawl back into the cupboard and hope to avoid his notice. She could only play and hope that losing didn't mean dying. She threw her words like dice, knowing they could well land snakeyes up.  
  
“Does it matter what I say?” His eyes danced with amusement, and somehow the grin showed more teeth. Not a losing move, not yet.  
  
“If you say yes, it won't be rape.” With a pounding heart and a gutful of adrenaline, what can you do? Fight, flight or fuck. Fighting was an absurd notion, and with his grip so tight and body so close flight was not an option either.  
  
Suddenly it seemed desperately important to return his grin. The next move was coming and it had to be a good one. _It doesn't matter then, does it?_ Was an option. _Then why bother to ask?_ No, she mustn't antagonise. _If it's under duress it's all the same._ Don't be a clever dick. _That's not how consent works._ Semantics. Do you _want_ to die? _Please, please don't._ Didn't even occur to her. Her lips stretched up and out into a hunting beast's grimace and her voice dropped by an octave.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Good.” He replied. He picked her up, and that didn't even surprise her. Survival said play along. Let him do what he wants, hope he doesn't want to kill you. She knew there was a body slumped over the nearest desk, but wasn't expecting the warmth when her hand brushed against an unidentified body part. She had already dismissed the former occupants of the office as newly inanimate objects. The reminder of their former humanity caused her to take a sudden intake of air was very nearly a gasp. He put her down on the edge of the desk, shoved the corpse out of the way and swiped most of the desk clear behind and around her with one arm. A detached part of her wondered how his clothing and armour worked, how he was going to get his cock out for her.  
  
“Don't worry,” he growled, reaching up her skirt and tearing a hole out of her tights, “You'll enjoy it.”  
  
“I intend to.” she growled back, surprising herself and him. He chuckled, a vibrating laugh that snapped on a few switches in her groin. “Well, why shouldn't I?” she snarled. “If I'm about to die, why shouldn't I get some pleasure out of it first?” _so much for playing it carefully._  
  
“Why, indeed.” he slammed their faces together, shoving his tongue into her mouth. It wriggled and danced, and blocked off her air supply. She tried not to panic, but struggled and twisted until the edges of her vision closed in. Her gag reflex didn't stop as he deliberately – or so it seemed – tripped her uvula. Just before she stopped moving, he let her suck in a desperate breath, and laughed. A little show of defiance might be entertaining, but he was not going to let her forget how easily he could kill her.  
  
“Here's a secret,” he breathed in her ear, one massive hand around her throat. “I don't need to breathe.” and with that, he dove down between her legs, hoisting her hips up so that her back slammed onto the surface of the desk and her head swung over the edge. He ripped the crotch out of her underwear, but had dragged her down so far that friction had hauled her skirt up to her waist. From that vantage point she could see the disapproving, glassy, upside down stare of a co-worker who hadn't ever bothered to ask her name. Someone else who would never care to know her name slid a finger down her slit and shoved it into her cunt, making her sob involuntarily and convulse upwards. Then he demonstrated quite how long and dexterous his tongue was. Using only that and one finger – though that was the size of some cocks she'd encountered – he made her gasp and moan, clench and drip. Several times she wanted to beg him to stop, but something told her that that would be a very bad idea. So she came on his mouth and hand, and he didn't stop until she came again. _Why does he care if I come? What does it matter to him?_ She was still trembling and sobbing for breath when he slid his tongue back down her throat and nearly choked her again, this time with the taste of her own cunt. She felt his cock against her lips and stifled a shriek as she registered the size of it and knew he would not go slowly for her sake. He didn't. It didn't matter that she screamed when he slammed it in, there was no-one left alive to hear it.  
  
He had got her as wet as she would go, but still it seemed impossible that his cock was inside her. He laughed the whole time he was fucking her, with one hand around her throat, squeezing every now and then as he pounded her pussy to remind her of her fragile mortality.  
  
This close to death, though, she had never felt so alive. She howled and shrieked with him, and didn't even need to fake it. It hurt, but somehow it also offered pleasure. She took it. He grabbed one of her legs under the knee and pulled, thrusting deeper and faster, and she was dimly aware that he was panting himself. Through the pain she felt a new, different orgasm building, as he tipped her hips back and hit her G-spot with every other thrust. She couldn't believe it, but before too long she was gasping and sobbing from pleasure as well as pain and when she finally tipped – with a helping brush of her own fingers on her clit because fuck it, he may well still snap her neck when he was finished – she gripped his cock so tight that she pulled him over with her. He roared. He buried his cock in her right up to the balls, and as she screamed one more time, he roared, and squirted enough cum to leak out while he was still in her.  
  
When he was done, she lay back with her head hanging back over the edge of the desk, boneless. He was still on top of her and inside her. He hadn't killed her at the point of orgasm, so that was something. Air still entered and exited her lungs. Nerves still sent signals up to her brain – her inner thighs and calves were telling her that the body they were tightly wrapped around was starting to move, as leather and metal stroked by. She had to tell them to let go.  
  
“Not bad.” he grunted, as his cock slid out of her now twitching hole. She lay there, knowing there were corpses all around, feeling like her chances of joining them were now, slightly, diminishing. He walked away, and resumed turning over bodies and opening drawers, until at last she heard a soft exhalation. Whatever he'd lost, it was found again.  
  
She waited to hear his footsteps retreating, or at least, the whining hinge of the office door that would tell her he was gone. When neither sound was forthcoming, she guessed that he had used those cat-like reflexes to leave silently. She opened her eyes and started to sit up, stopping when she saw that he was still there. He was standing close, looking at her. She stared back, upside down. When had he picked up his sword again? The air was thick, almost too thick to breathe. He moved through it in slow motion, casually bringing that wicked blade closer and closer to her neck. He wasn't holding it up as if to use it yet, but she had no illusions about her ability to get out of the way before he could swing it up into the air and back down through flesh and bone. She had to say something, before he decided that the most entertaining thing she could do now was die.  
  
“Why did you make me come?” she blurted the first thing that came into her head. Blessedly, he stopped. He appeared to consider the question. Perhaps he didn't get asked it often.  
  
“Call me crazy-” _not to your face_ “-but I like my women to enjoy me.” and he cracked that grin again. It was no less terrifying now than the first time she saw it, but she told herself that there was less menace behind it now. Maybe his bloodlust was gone now, flushed through with some actual lust. She'd done all she could. She closed her eyes again.  
  
She didn't know for sure that he would let her live, but it now seemed quite likely. She didn't know what would happen if and when the police got there. But she did know that no other man would ever fuck her like that again. No. For that, there could be only one.


End file.
